Part 3

As it professes to be a complete encyclopaedia of the sports and pastimes of youth, it contains, 1. Minor Sports, as marbles, tops, balls, &c. 2. Athletic Sports. 3. Aquatic Recreations. 4. Birds, and other boy fancies. 5. Scientific Recreations. 6. Games of Skill. 7. The Conjuror; and 8. Miscellaneous Recreations. All these occupy 460 pages, which, like every sheet of the MIRROR, are as full as an egg. The vignettes and tail-pieces are the prettiest things we have ever seen, and some are very picturesque.

In our school-days there was no such book as this _Justinian of the play-ground_, if we except a thin volume of games published by Tabart. Boys then quarrelled upon nice points of play, parties ran high, and civil war, birch, and the 119th psalm were the consequences. A disputed marble, or a questioned run at cricket, has thus broken up the harmony of many a holiday; but we hope that such feuds will now cease; for the "Boy's Own Book," will settle all differences as effectually as a police magistrate, a grand jury, or the house of lords. Boys will no longer sputter and fume like an over-toasted apple; but, even the cares of childhood will be smoothed into peace; by which means good humour may not be so rare a quality among men. But to complete this philanthropic scheme, the publishers of the "_Boy's_ Own Book," intend producing a similar volume for _Girls_. This is as it should be, for the _Misses_ ought to have an equal chance with the _Masters_--at least so say we,--_plaudite_, clap your little hands, and _valete_, good bye!

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THE NEW YEAR'S GIFT AND JUVENILE SOUVENIR.

The editor, or _editress_, (for we doubt whether the former is epicene,) of this elegant little volume is the lady of Mr. Alaric A. Watts, the editor of the _Literary Souvenir_. It is expressly designed for the perusal of children from six to twelve years old, and is, we think, both by its embellishments and literary contents, calculated to attract hundreds of juvenile admirers. Indeed, we are surprised that the children have been so long without _their_ "Annuals," whilst those of "a larger growth" have been supplied in abundance; but, as Sir Walter Scott has set the example of writing for masters and misses, we hope that our nursery literature will rise in character, and it will not henceforth be the business of after-years to correct erroneous ideas imbibed from silly books during our childhood. In this task much time has been lost. Mrs. Watts is of the same opinion; and with this view, "the extravagances of those apocryphal personages--giants, ghosts, and fairies--have been entirely banished from her pages, as tending not only to enervate the infant mind, and unfit it for the reception of more wholesome nutriment, but also to increase the superstitious terrors of childhood,--the editor has not less scrupulously excluded those novel-like stories of exaggerated sentiment, which may now almost be said to form the staple commodity of our nursery literature."--(_Preface_.) Accordingly, we have in the _New Year's Gift_ three historical pieces and engravings, illustrating the murder of the young princes in the Tower; Arthur imploring Hubert not to put out his eyes; and another. There are from thirty to forty tales, sketches, and poems, among which are a pretty story, by Mrs. Hofland; a Cricketing Story, by Miss Mitford, &c. There are two or three little pieces enjoining humanity to animals, and some pleasing anecdotes of monkeys and tame robins, and a few lines on the Reed-Sparrow's Nest:--

Only see what a neat, warm, compact little thing! Mister Nash could not build such a house for the king; Not he, let him labour his best.

Among the poetry are some graceful lines by Mr. Watts to his son; but our extract must be "The Spider and the Fly, a new version of an old story," by Mrs. Howitt. It is a lesson for all folks--great and small--from the infant in the nursery to the emperor of Russia, the grand signior of Turkey, and the queen of Portugal--or from those who play with toy-cannons to such as are now figuring on the theatre of war:--

"Will you walk into my parlour" said a spider to a fly: "'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy. The way into my parlour is up a winding stair, And I have many pretty things to show you when you are there." "Oh, no, no!" said the little fly, "to ask me is in vain, For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."

"I'm sure you must be weary with soaring up so high, Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the spider to the fly. "There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are fine and thin; And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in." "Oh, no, no!" said the little fly, "for I've often heard it said, They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!"

Said the cunning spider to the fly, "Dear friend, what shall I do, To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you? I have, within my pantry, good store of all that's nice-- I'm sure you're very welcome--will you please to take a slice?" "Oh, no, no!" said the little fly, "kind sir, that cannot be, I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see."

"Sweet creature!" said the spider, "you're witty and you're wise. How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes! I have a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf, If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself." "I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you're pleased to say, And bidding you good morning now, I'll call another day."

The spider turned him round about, and went into his den, For well he knew the silly fly would soon come back again: So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner, sly, And set his table ready to dine upon the fly. Then he went out to his door again, and merrily did sing, "Come hither, hither, pretty fly, with the pearl and silver wing; Your robes are green and purple--there's a crest upon your head-- Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead,"

Alas, alas how very soon this silly little fly. Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by; With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew, Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue; Thinking only of her crested head--poor foolish thing!--At last Up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her fast.

He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den, Within his little parlour--but she ne'er came out again! --And now, dear little children, who may this story read, To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed: Unto an evil counsellor close heart, and ear, and eye, And take a lesson from this tale of the Spider and the Fly.

Among the more serious pieces, we notice a beautiful lament of childhood by Mrs. Hemans, and a hymn by Mrs. Opie.

The engravings, twelve in number, with several little wood-cut tail-pieces, are beautifully executed; and altogether, the New Year's Gift deserves a place on the _cheffonier_ shelf of every nursery in the kingdom.

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We have received several other "Annuals," which we shall notice in an early Supplementary Number.

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SPIRIT OF THE

PUBLIC JOURNALS

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ALBUMS

_North_. ALBUMS! James--these compendiums of wit and wisdom have become the greatest nuisances of all civilized society----

_Shepherd_. Tuts, man--what ails ye at Allbums?

_North_. They have broken that confidence between man and woman, which, in our young day, used to form the delight of an acquaintance with an amiable and accomplished female. In those happy times, how often have we sat in a bright circle of the fair and young, and talked, and laughed, in the gaiety of our careless hearts, without fear or apprehension! But now we are afraid, in the presence of ladies, to give utterance to any thing beyond a remark upon the weather. It is long since we have drilled ourselves to attribute smiles and whispers, and even squeezes of the hand, to their true source. We see an album lurking in every dimple of a young maiden's cheek, and a large folio common-place book, reposing its alexandrine length, in every curve of a dowager's double chin.

_Shepherd_. Tuts, man! What ails ye at Allbums?

_North_. No age is free from the infection. We go to a house in the country where there are three unmarried daughters, two aunts, and a grandmother. Complain not of a lack of employment on a rainy morning, in such a domicile and establishment as this. You may depend upon it, that the first patter of rain upon the window is the signal for all the vellum and morocco bound scrap-books to make a simultaneous rush upon the table. Forth comes the grandmother, and pushes an old dingy-coloured volume into your hands, and pointing out a spare leaf, between a recipe for curing corns, and a mixture for the hooping-cough, she begs you to fill it up--with any thing you please.

_Shepherd_. Weel, weel, man--why canna you oblege the auld body?

_North_. What right has an old woman, with silver spectacles on her long, thin nose, to enlist any man among the awkward squad which compose her muster roll? Who can derive inspiration from the boney hand, which is coaxingly laid on your shoulder, and trembles, not from agitation or love, but merely from the last attack of the rheumatism?

_Shepherd_. But young leddies hae their Allbums, too, as weel's auld anes.

_North_. And even the young ladies, James, presume too much upon their power. Is there no way of getting into their books, but by writing in their albums? Are we to pay for smiles at the rate of so many lines a dimple? If the fair creatures are anxious to shew they can read, let them discover it by the tenor of their conversation, and not by large folios of quotations from books which every body knows; or if they are anxious to shew that they can write, we can tell them they are very wrong in having any such wish. I will put it to any man--are not the pleasantest women of his acquaintance, those to whose handwriting he is the greatest stranger? Did they not think their adored enslaver, who at one time was considered, when they were musing on her charms, beneath some giant tree, within the forest shade, "too fair to worship, too divine to love,"--did they not think her a little less divine, without being a bit more loveable, when they pored over, in her autograph, a long and foolish extract from some dunderhead's poems, with the points all wrong placed, and many of the words misspelt?

_Shepherd_. Neither points nor spellin's o' the smallest consequence in a copy o' verses.

_North_. Think of the famous lovers of antiquity, James. Do you think Thisbe kept a scrap-book, or that Pyramus slipped "Lines on Thisbe's Cat" through the celebrated hole-in-the-wall? No such thing. If he had, there would have been as little poetry in his love as in his verses. No man could have had the insolence, not even a Cockney poetaster, to kill himself for love, after having scribbled namby-pambys in a pale-blue, gilt-edged album.

_Shepherd_. Faith--that's rather a lauchable idea.

_North_. In every point of view, scrap-books are the death of love. Many a very sensible man can "whisper soft nonsense in a lady's ear," when all the circumstances of the scene are congenial. We ourselves have frequently descended to make ourselves merely the most agreeable man in the world, till we unfortunately discovered that the blockheads who could not comprehend us when we were serious, were still farther from understanding the ineffable beauty of our nonsense; so that in both cases we were the sufferers. They took our elegant badinage for our sober and settled opinions, and laughed in the most accommodating manner when we delivered our real and most matured sentiments.

_Blackwood's Magazine_.

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Notes of a Reader

LORD BYRON'S FIRST LOVE.--NEWSTEAD.

Sir Richard Phillips who has been for some months on a Tour of Inquiry and Observation through the United Kingdom, has just published his _First Part_, containing Bedfordshire, Northamptonshire, Leicestershire, and part of Nottinghamshire. Sir Richard visited _Newstead_, and was hospitably entertained by Colonel Wildman. In his "Notes," on this interesting spot, he says,--"While in this vicinity, I heard many particulars of BYRON'S first love, a passion which tinged the whole of his future life. Near Newstead stands Annesley Hall, a house as considerable and venerable as Newstead itself; and the daughter of the owner, Mr. Chaworth, was an heiress of immense fortune, interesting, and amiable, but about four years older than Byron. He fell in love with her, but she had formed an early attachment for Capt. Musters, of the Nottingham militia, whom she married. After she had some children, she fell into a low state of mind, and separation was the consequence; but, on recovering, she was reunited to her husband, and has since borne him several children. She still lives, but has long been in very infirm health. The affair forms the subject of Lord Byron's justly celebrated _Dream_, printed with the 'Prisoner of Chillon.'

"From the eastern windows of the southern front of Newstead, all the scenery of the poem is visible, except Annesley Hall, which lies over the cape of which he speaks; but there still are trees, and the high point at which he describes the impassioned interview. I read the poem with the objects before me, and was overpowered by the sympathies and recollections which must be familiar to all men, for most men have felt as Byron felt, though few ever portrayed their feelings with such energy of thought and language.

"Night overtaking me at Newstead, the splendid hospitality of Colonel Wildman was kindly exerted, and he indulged a sentimental traveller by allowing me to sleep in Byron's room and Byron's bed. Those who admire Byron, (and for those who do not, I care but little) will participate in the luxury of such a night. The bed is elegantly surmounted with baronial coronets, but it was Byron's and I cared nothing for the coronets, though all the conveniences of the apartment were delightful.

"I will add to these details a fact which will interest many; that the dog which Lord Byron reared in Greece, and the grandson of Boatswain, having been brought home with his body, is still alive at Newstead, cherished for the sake of his master, and respected for his own good qualities."

We shall return to Sir Richard's "Tour" in our next number; for it possesses extraordinary attractions for all classes of readers.

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THE ANNUALS.--THE LITERARY SOUVENIR.

One hundred guineas is stated to be the lowest cost of either of the engravings in "the Literary Souvenir for 1829;" some of them, indeed, cost from 150 to 170 guineas each. A circulation of less than from 8 to 9,000 copies, would entail a loss upon the proprietors; so that the expense of "getting up" this superb "Annual" probably exceeds 3,500l.; and taking this sum for the average of six others published at the same price, and with a proportionate advance for two more published at one guinea each, the outlay of capital in these works is from 35 to 40,000l.[4] This sum would purchase _Five Million_ numbers of THE MIRROR, or 80 million printed pages, with 10 million impressions of woodcuts!

[4] The portion of this sum paid for the literary department would form a curious item in the records of genius, especially in contrast with Milton's five pounds for his _Paradise Lost_.

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TRUE CONSOLATION.

A citizen of Geneva having lost his wife, he, according to the custom of the country, attended the funeral to the cemetery, which is out of the city. Somebody meeting him on his return from this painful ceremony, assumed a sorrowful countenance, and in the tenderest manner possible, asked him how he did. "Oh," replied the widower, "I am very well at present; this little walk has set me up; there is nothing like country air."

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HARD RAIN.

Mr. Rae Wilson tells us, that he saw some huge stones of granite on his road to Mecklenburgh, which he says actually seem to have been rained there; in which belief he is strengthened by a story in a Philadelphia newspaper, of "a spitting of stones, which ended in a regular shower at Nashville, in May, 1825!"--There is seldom a good story without its match.

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FRENCH PRISON.

A recent letter from Paris gives the following account of the Debtors' Prison, compared with which, it seems, our _Fleet_ is a perfect Arcadia:--Each room contains four beds, small, dirty, and damp; so that the eyes of the unfortunate inmates become red and inflamed; not even a window can be shut to keep out a current of air. If a creditor visits a debtor who wishes to be revenged, the latter has only to cry _au loup_, when all parties assail the unlucky creditor, and _perhaps murder him!_ Gambling is the great resource of the ignorant, so that frequently those who have only a few pence per day to exist on, are obliged to fast entirely, having anticipated their allowance; many even pawn their coats, and walk about _en chemise!_

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NOLLEKENS.

When Nollekens, the sculptor, was at Rome, in 1760, he was recognised by Garrick with the familiar exclamation of "What! let me look at you, are you the little fellow to whom we gave the prizes at the Society of Arts?" "Yes, Sir," being the answer, Garrick invited him to breakfast the next morning, and sat to him for his bust, for which he paid Nollekens £12. 12s. in gold; this was the first bust he ever modelled. Sterne sat to him when at Rome, and that bust brought him into great notice.

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INDIAN TRADITION.

Among the various Indian traditions of the Creation and fall of man is the following:--In the beginning, a few men rose out of the ground, but there was no woman among them. One of them found out a road to heaven, where he met a woman; they offended the Great Spirit, upon which they were both thrust out. They fell on the back of the tortoise; the woman was delivered of male twins; in process of time, one of these twins slew the other.--_Dr. Walsh_.

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THE AGE OF THIRTY.

I always looked to about thirty, as the barrier of any real or fierce delight in the passions, and determined to work them out in the younger ore and better veins of the mine; and, I flatter myself, that perhaps, I have pretty well done so, and now the _dross_ is coming, and _I love lucre_; for we must love something; at least, if I have not quite worked out the others, it is not for want of labouring hard to do so.--_Lord Byron_, in 1823.

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COVENT GARDEN.

Where holy friars told their beads, And nuns confess'd their evil deeds. But, O sad change! O shame to tell, How soon a prey to vice it fell! How--since its justest appellation Is Grand Seraglio to the Nation.

_Satire_, 1756.

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CROSS TIMES.

When everybody was in suspense in consequence of the vacillating conduct of the French government, a gentleman with a determined _squint_, one day approached Talleyrand, and said to him, "Well, prince, how do affairs go on?" "As you see," replied Talleyrand.

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CHANGING HATS.

Barry, the painter, was with Nollekens, at Rome, in 1760, and they were extremely intimate. Barry took the liberty one night when they were about to leave the English coffee-house, to exchange hats with him; Barry's was edged with lace, and Nollekens' was a very shabby plain one. Upon his returning the hat the next morning, he was requested by Nollekens to let him know why he left him his gold-laced hat. "Why, to tell you the truth, my dear Joey," answered Barry, "I fully expected assassination last night; and I was to have been known by my laced hat." Nollekens often used to relate the story, adding, "It's what the Old Bailey people would call a true bill against Jem."--_Nollekens's Life and Times_.

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Napoleon's Roman bed at Malmaison was without curtains, and his arms were hung on the walls of the chamber.

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LINES WRITTEN ON A JOURNEY OVER THE BROCKEN.

BY S.T. COLERIDGE.

I moved on With low and languid thought, for I had found That grandest scenes have but imperfect charms Where the eye vainly wanders, nor beholds One spot with which the heart associates Holy remembrances of child or friend, Or gentle maid, our first and early love, Or father, or the venerable name Of our adored country. _O thou Queen, Thou delegated Deity of Earth, Oh "dear, dear" England, how my longing eyes Turned westward, shaping in the steady clouds Thy sands and high white cliffs!_ Sweet native isle, This heart was proud, yea, mine eyes swam with tears To think of thee; and all the goodly view From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills Floated away, like a departing dream, Feeble and dim.

_Amulet for_ 1829.

We wish a few more of the tourists who are picking their way over the continent, would illustrate their books of travels with such noble sentiments as are contained in these few lines--instead of the querulous whinings about cheap and dear living, the miseries of our climate, and a thousand other ills of the _malade imaginaire_.

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Madame De Souza used to say that "cleanliness is the excellence of the poor."

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The Gatherer.

A snapper up of unconsidered trifles. Shakspeare.

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RUSSIA AND TURKEY.

(_To the Editor of the Mirror_.)

The following intelligence from the seat of war, though premature in some respects, and _not quite_ new in others, may be acceptable to your readers, from A.A.A.

ALPHABETICAL ALLITERATION.

An awful army, artfully array'd, Boldly by battery besieg'd Belgrade; Cossack commanders cannonading come, Dealing destruction's devastating doom, Every endeavour engineers essay, For fame, for fortune, forming furious fray. Gaunt gunners grapple, giving gashes good, Heaves high his head heroic hardihood; Ibraham, Islam, Ismael, imps in ill, Jostle John Jarovlitz, Jem, Joe, Jack, Jill. Kick kindling Kutusoff, king's kinsmen kill; Labour low levels loftiest, longest lines, Men march 'mid moles, 'mid mounds, 'mid murd'rous mines. Now nightfall's near, now needful nature nods, Oppos'd, opposing, overcoming odds. Poor peasants, partly purchas'd, partly press'd, Quite quaking, "Quarter!--quarter!" quickly 'quest. Reason returns, recalls redundant rage, Saves sinking soldiers, softens signiors sage. Truce, Turkey, truce! truce, treach'rous Tartar train! Unwise, unjust, unmerciful ukraine! Vanish, vile vengeance! vanish, victory vain! Wisdom wails war--wails warring words. What were Xerxes, Xantippe, Ximenes, Xavier? Yet, Yassy's youth, ye yield your youthful yest, Zealously, zanies, zealously, zeal's zest.

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Ye learned, pray say, who dark mysteries unfold, Why razors cut better with _hot_ water than _cold_.

Every kind of knife or razor is a fine saw, though we cannot possibly see it with the naked eye; and on all the edges of those fine polished tools there sticks a kind of resinous substance, which, when put into warm water, takes off the same, and makes the razor cut more easy and free.

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